


Relinquishment

by tahirire



Series: Regen 'Verse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-27
Updated: 2009-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:43:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahirire/pseuds/tahirire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even at the height of war, one must rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relinquishment

Relinquishment

Jo had lost all track of time hours ago, and her only current thought was how good it would feel to be unconcious as she lugged another bucket of holy water to the cistern. The quiet moans of the wounded around her lulled her senses, and if she stopped to think how messed up that was, she might puke. Again.

The night sky was suspiciously clear, stars showing faintly through for the first time in ages. A fresh breeze blew in across the desert, gently pushing the sulfer scent away. She breathed deeply as she poured the water into the well, but she didn’t close her eyes. She couldn’t afford the luxury.

She dropped the bucket and rubbed at her shoulder, sore from the recoil of her Remington side-by-side. There would be a bruise there in the morning, but she was sure she’d have to take up the shotgun again soon enough. “No rest for the wicked,” she whispered.

“Hey, I rest.”

Jo was a hardened hunter now, and she didn’t startle anymore, but that didn’t keep her heart from jumping. She spun around, feeling her lips move in a strange direction - up. She stopped short, fingers touching her face in wonder. “I’m smiling,” she mumbled, instantly feeling stupid. She blinked rapidly, swayed, overwhelmed by the sudden, bone-deep relief that for at least a few minutes, she wasn’t the one in charge here anymore.

Dean grinned widely and shook his head. “How ‘bout sitting down before you fall down.” He moved to her side, taking her elbow firmly. His grin held, but there was tension in his voice. “Whoever said there’d be plenty of time to sleep when you’re dead never tried to fight a whole war on one hour of shut-eye, understand?”

She nodded wordlessly, scolding her traitorous body for the way it relaxed into his grip. It wasn’t him, she told herself. It was the exhaustion talking. The fresh breeze lifted her hair and she smiled.

Sam had come, and suddenly the clear sky and feeling of peace made sense.

They headed back toward the ring of small adobe houses. It looked like the Alamo, and she shivered. Dean pulled her in a little closer, mistaking her dread for cold.

As they neared the compound she saw Sam across the courtyard, talking to Bradford. Sam was engrossed in the conversation, speaking quietly, head ducked and shoulders raised enough to meet the other man’s gaze. In the dark, there was no mistaking the glint shining out from Sam’s dark face. Bradford, usually so brusque, was listening with rapt attention, staring unabashedly at Sam with something like awe in his eyes.

In the doors of the other houses, wraithlike shadows flickered out onto the stone, every able-bodied soldier straining to get a glimpse of the Winchesters in general and Sam in particular. Some revered him, she knew, and some feared him more than Lucifer. They were good women, though, good men, and they kept their worries to themselves. They trusted her to give them their cues, and she felt their eyes on her now. She squared her shoulders.

She hadn’t been afraid of Sam in years.

Jo found the strength from somewhere to pull away from Dean. His eyebrows raised, but he let her go, and they approached Sam and Bradford smoothly. There was a muffled collective gasp from the darkened house doors as Sam turned to her and smiled, spreading his arms wide.

“Sam,” she whispered, sinking gratefully into his strong embrace. She tried not to look up too high. She didn’t want to see the dark circles under his eyes, the new marks on his body. She just wanted to rest for one moment in the knowledge that he was here, Dean was here, and they were safe.

He held her firmly, cupping the back of her head in one large hand, absently stroking her hair the way a parent would comfort a child. Dean’s hand rested on the small of her back, a steady, reassuring weight.

With a sigh that almost sounded like a sob, she made herself pull away. “What are you doing here?”She asked.

They exchanged a look then. Her insides, so warmed from Sam’s fire, turned to ice. “Jo,” Sam began, his voice smooth and low. “Is there somewhere we can talk alone?” His hazel-golden eyes sparkled like jewels, flickering everywhere, the light of his power spilling out as he felt the tension of the camp.

She nodded, threading her arms through each of theirs, and led them to the main structure, where, deep in the back corner, she had a small space to herself. She felt so small between them, so fragile. She motioned for them to sit as she stifled a yawn, plunking down on her hard cot. Her feet throbbed, and she groaned dispite herself.

Dean sat beside her, far enough away to regard her clearly, and Sam leaned against the stucko wall, crossing his arms over his chest. In here, in the small room without the crackle of power, he seemed so young. But there was no trace of the hesitant and broken young man that stumbled into the Roadhouse that day, lost in the world, mourning his father. This Sam was strong, capable.

This Sam would save them all. Jo was sure of it.

Dean looked expectantly to his brother, and Sam nodded his approval. Jo swallowed down the lump in her throat. “We came to give you this.” Dean stated, extending a gleaming object towards her in the dim light, worn wooden handle first.

Jo stared. “I … but.” She stuttered. “I can’t take that, Dean. We’re ok here, we don’t -” She tried to push it back to him, but he shook his head.

“Take it. Me and Sammy… we don’t need it anymore. I want someone to have it that can use it. Now listen,” he said, placing the knife in her hand and drawing her attention to his face, “it only works on Blacks and Reds. You see a White, you run, you hear me?”

She nodded, gripping the handle so tight her knuckles burned. She looked to Sam, questions in her eyes.

“Take it, Jo,” he said. “We want you to have it. You take care of yourself, ok?” He waited for her to relax, tucking the knife under her pillow, and then he pushed off the wall. “I’m going to talk to a few of the guys for a while. I’ll see you, Jo.”

“Bye Sam,” she choked, fighting down the urge to beg him, to beg them both to stay.

As if sensing her panic, Dean shifted closer. “Go ahead and sleep, kiddo. We’ll stick around tonight.” He said, pushing her gently down onto the cot and pulling up her blanket.

Tears filled her eyes unbidden, relief at relinquishing her burden too much for her to bear. Dean’s face was drawn and haggard, he hadn’t shaved, and she wondered how many people had given their burdens to him lately. How many angels.

“What about you?” She asked, reaching slowly to fit her hand in his.

He looked away, out to where Sam waited. His gaze flicked around the small courtyard rapidly, assessing every threat, calculating every variable. When he looked back, his eyes were carefully blank above his cocky smirk.

He pulled his hand away.

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”


End file.
